Mountains
by macrauchenia
Summary: On a cold winter night, a runaway prince falls asleep by a dying fire. After the fire and ice stake their claims, Shouto awakes to a frozen heart, unable to remember why it no longer beats as it should. Izuku, accompanied by an insecure witch and an aspiring knight, embark on a dangerous quest to thaw the prince's icy heart. [BNHA Fairytale Bang] [Snow Queen/Fairytale AU]


**Author's Note: **Here's my story for the BNHA Fantasy AU Bang on tumblr! My amazingly talented partner, Sav, has created some beautiful art for this story, so please check her work out! Since FF won't let me post links, her Tumblr usernames are "gayluciomain" and "savvage-arts".

A little info about this story: it's loosely based on fairy tales (especially the "Snow Queen"). There aren't quirks in this world, but there's a healthy sprinkling of magic! Also, this story is lowkey inspired by "Mountains" by Radical Face if anyone was curious :')

* * *

Shouto wriggles in his seat, trying to bring feeling back to his numb backside. He's only been to this part of the castle a few times and he knows he ought to pay more attention to his opulent surroundings, but he's too distracted by the tingles darting through the meat of his thighs.

Besides, he doesn't like the austere, gaunt faces of his ancestors—the past rulers of their kingdom—or the way they seem to glare at him from their mounted paintings.

Shouto glances back to where his mother and father stand. They're listening to an old woman speak, her voice as rasping and harsh as a cat's tongue.

(His mother called her a soothsayer when she had brought Shouto to the king's chambers. He didn't know what that meant. They predict the future, she had told him.)

(He still wasn't sure what that meant _for him.)_

The soothsayer turns towards Shouto and falls silent. Shouto stares back.

She's old, older than anyone he's ever met before. She's even older than the withered vegetable peeler who often dozes by the kitchen hearth. There's a cloudiness to her pale gray gaze, like someone had poured milk in her eyes. Even though she's angled her head in his direction, he's still not sure if she's looking at him or something else.

It's uneasiness and not the fear of being rude that makes Shouto avert his gaze from her wrinkled face.

Then she speaks again.

"Yes, the words I bring shall come to pass. Ice and fire are intertwined with his fate. His heart will be as unblemished and hard as ice."

His father's lips curl into a smile. "With the dragon horde to the south and the liberation uprising to the east, a hardened heart is exactly what we need. A favorable prophecy indeed."

"My words should also be taken as a warning, my king. Ice holds great strength, but also great cruelness. It is as deadly as it is beautiful. Only the hottest of embers can thaw what he will become."

His mother bites her lip. "What do you mean? What will Shouto become?"

Shouto perks up at the mention of his name. The soothsayer clears her throat with a strained, hoarse cough. "Perhaps it will be best to discuss the meaning of this away from the ears of your son..."

Shouto frowns. He doesn't want to be left alone, but his parents and the soothsayer only shuffle a few meters away. He can hear his mother's fast, frantic whisper and his father's slow rumble, but he can't make out their words.

When the soothsayer finishes speaking, she steps back and bows her head. His parents converse for a moment longer, his mother shaking her head with vehement protest. His father's expression remains impassive.

Her voice gets louder—loud enough for Shouto to catch snatches of their debate. "Please reconsider, Enji. We don't know-he's so young and Toya's already training to be a soldi—"

"I've made my decision," he interrupts. Shouto startles with how loud his voice bounce off the stone walls. His mother shrinks back with eyes downcast. She looks so tiny compared to the king.

Then they both turn to look at him. He can't make out the meaning of his father's heavy-brow scowl, but his mother's expression is more open: mashed lips and wide, bright eyes.

Their unfamiliar expressions scare him, making him feel like there's something wrong with him. His own eyes prickle with tears. He expects his mother to rush to his side and brush the wetness from his lashes, but she remains rooted to the spot. Instead, it's the soothsayer who pauses to comfort him as she hobbles towards the door.

"My crown prince," she whispers, dipping her head again. The new title momentarily stuns Shouto. He's familiar with people calling him prince, but he doesn't know what this new word means.

"Please forgive me for bringing these words to you," she says. She reaches out and scrapes the edge of his cheek with her gnarled fingers. It feels like a tree branch scratching against his skin and he recoils. The soothsayer eyes him for a moment longer before taking her exit.

With the visit over, he expects his mother to take him back to the familiar chambers he shares with Natsuo. When his mother hurries from the room, Shouto rises from the chair to follow her.

"No, sit," the king says with a shake of the head. "You have lessons to learn. Now you are more than a prince."

Shouto Todoroki is four years old when his fate is sealed.

* * *

War calls the king away and Shouto enjoys the brief respite from his royal training. He knows he will accompany his father to the battlefields when he's older, but he's content to curl up in his mother's warm lap until those fateful days arrive.

She hums under her breath as she gently brushes his crimson hair from his brow. He absorbs her every feature with a hungry desperation. It's been nearly two weeks since he's seen her last. Dark shadows stain the puffy skin under her eyes and her cheekbones seem sharper than usual, but her eyes still crinkle when she smiles and her silver hair still shines like starlight.

(Shouto wishes he looked more like her. He's envious of Natsuo and Fuyumi, who look so much like their mother. Instead, he's cursed with the fiery hair of their father.)

"Tell me about your home," he begs his mother. "I want to hear about the mountains again!"

(The king thinks telling stories is a waste of time.)

"I've told you so many times. Aren't you sick of it yet?"

"_Please?"_

His mother laughs and shakes her head, but she relents. "It's a very cold place," she begins. "But very, very beautiful. Snow falls for the whole year!"

She sighs, falling silent for a moment. Shouto shimmies in her lap and she continues.

"The mountains were my favorite part. The mountains we have here look like molehills compared to the ones I used to climb as a girl. They're so tall that the very tops are hidden in the clouds."

Shouto struggles and fails to wrap his mind around such impossible heights. To him, the king is the tallest thing he knows. He looks back to his mother and notices she's stopped smiling.

"Do you miss your old home?"

"I—" His mother hesitates before nodding. "I do, but my place is here now. With the king… With _you_."

"Father says I can't go to the mountains either." Shouto puckers his lips, considering. "But when I'm older, I'll be able to do whatever I want! And I'll take you with me!"

"That sounds wonderful, dear."

"No one can stop me when I'm king."

His mother's smile returns as her fingers weave through his silky bangs. Shouto leans into the soothing caress. He doesn't see the way his mother's gaze drifts towards the crackling hearth.

* * *

Shouto staggers to a stop. Someone else sits at his spot at the table. Dark hair, slumped shoulders—he can't tell who it is without getting closer. He tiptoes like he does whenever his father is near, keeping close to the plush crimson curtains lining the walls.

"It's an honor to be greeted by the _crown _prince_."_

Shouto freezes. He wonders if he should be offended by the cavalier drawl to the man's voice or the slight scoff when he bends back over his bowl. Shouto shifts from foot to foot. He's not sure what he's waiting for: either an invitation to step closer or perhaps an introduction.

"You've grown since I've last seen you. You look a lot like him now."

He doesn't recognize the voice yet, but he isn't too surprised. Hundreds of people pass in and out of his life at his father's behest.

"You're how old now? Six?"

Shouto clears his throat. "Seven."

"Seven, huh? It _has_ been a while then."

"Who are you?"

There's something simultaneously wrong and familiar about the stranger's voice—like a misremembered memory—and curiosity finally forces Shouto closer. The stranger turns his head, catching a glimpse of Shouto out of the corner of a turquoise eye.

"That's no way to greet your brother."

_Brother? That means—_

"Toya…?"

His brother leans back with a strained smile, the dark purple scars along his neck and cheek tugging taut with the expression.

"Ah, so you do remember me? I thought the king would have tried to bury me with the rest of his failures."

Shouto hesitates before opening his mouth. "He said you died while fighting… that… that you died long ago. Natsuo and Fuyumi didn't be—"

"Unfortunately, I wasn't lucky enough to die," Toya interrupts, any hint of pleasure in his voice drying fast. When he picks at the scabs lining his cheek, Shouto notices the skin along the back of his hands are just as shriveled and scarred.

Shouto's eyes jump from his brother's mottled burns to the sooty blackness of his hair. The only recognizable feature is the blue of his eyes—the same icy shade as their father's eyes. Shouto shudders and glances at the polished surface of the banquet hall table.

"Scared? Wouldn't blame you. I must look like some kind of monster now, don't I?"

Shouto swallows and shakes his head. His eyes trace the grains of the wood instead of the blistered scabs along his brother's neck.

"What happened?"

Toya shrugs, his shoulders only rising a few millimeters before dipping. Each of his movements are slow and careful, almost as if it pains him to move too quickly.

"War happened."

"Against who?"

"Dragons, men—it doesn't damn well matter who we're actually fighting."

Shouto peeks back up at his brother, waiting for him to continue, but he doesn't. Instead, he's studying Shouto with narrowed eyes.

"Though, it looks like war isn't the only thing to leave scars."

He reaches towards Shouto's left eye. Shouto recoils reflexively, turning his face away. His skin no longer burns like it did several years ago, but he can still feel the ghost of his mother's caressing palm before the pain took hold.

"It—it was a mistake. An accident. She didn't mean to—"

"Push you into the fire because she feared what you would become? The castle walls are not sealed as tightly as the king prides them to be."

Shouto stiffens and narrows his eyes. "Father will want to know you've returned. I'll—"

Toya interrupts Shouto with a gusty sigh, planting his scarred palms on the smooth tabletop and hoisting himself into a standing position.

"Don't bother wasting an audience with him. I haven't returned to stay. I'm just here to say my goodbyes—and to offer a warning."

"A warning?" Despite the sweat beading under Shouto's thick, scratchy collar, a chill races up his spine.

"Everyone in the kingdom knows about the soothsayer's auspicious prediction for our dear crown prince, but ask the king for the _whole_ prophecy. Ask him what she really meant when she foretold a heart as unblemished and sturdy as ice. That's what our mother was scared of."

"Wait! What—"

"Farewell, Prince Shouto. I'm leaving before I rot in this wretched castle."

He pauses by the threshold and glances back one more time. His lips are quirked in the same sardonic smile, but there's a touch of melancholy in the way his shoulders sink.

"And if you're as smart as everyone believes, you'll do the same."

Toya disappears around the corner. When Shouto musters up the courage to chase after him, his brother has vanished. Shouto frowns down the empty hallway, wondering if Natsuo's ghost stories carry a touch of truth after all.

* * *

He learns of his mother's death by mistake. He doesn't know which is crueler: that he stumbles upon the letter in his tutor's room when searching for a lost book or the fact that no one would have told him otherwise.

The letter is dated to nearly three years ago. He would have been eight when she died.

Now he's eleven.

He's still gripping the wrinkled parchment in bloodless knuckles when he demands to speak to the king. The guards standing in front of his father's chambers exchange worried glances, torn between loyalties to their present and future rulers.

"The king is very busy at the moment… I'm sure if you scheduled an audience with—"

Shouto levels them with a hardened stare, so unnatural for a child's face. The guards step aside hastily. He takes a steadying breath before pushing through the heavy wooden doors.

"_What part of leave me in peace_—Shouto?" The king's annoyed roar tapers to a surprised blink. He lowers the stack of papers in his hands. It's not often that Shouto willingly visits his father.

"When would you have told me?"

"Told you about what?"

"About my mother!"

The king's eyebrows tilt downwards, his brow furrowing. He remains silent, so Shouto lets the dammed-up fury break free. He feels a strange, unfamiliar emotion bubbling up in his throat and spewing out of his mouth in seething hisses. He rarely allows himself to be angry and never around the king. He's always forced himself to keep expressions as slick as ice; it almost feels cathartic, letting the façade crack.

"The letter said she got sick after being banished! This wouldn't have happened if you hadn't sent her away!"

"We sent her away for your protection. She nearly killed you. We had no guarantee that she wouldn't attempt it again."

"She wouldn't have! It was a mistake…"

The uncertainty starts to creep in. Shouto's fingertips graze the bottom edge of his scarred cheek.

"A mistake?" his father scoffs.

His skin feels chilled and clammy now that the flushed heat from his anger has dissipated.

"She didn't mean to—"

"Stop this. You're acting like a child."

Shouto clamps his lips shut. The king is no longer looking at him; he's staring at the papers on his desk again. Shouto feels as stranded and insignificant as a chair pulled too far from its table.

"I…" Shouto's gaze drops to the polished buttons on his shoes. "I didn't want her to go…"

"It was…_unfortunate_ what happened, but the matter is out of our hands."

_Out of our hands? _

A beat of silence and the soft shuffle of parchment. The embers crackling in the stone hearth stir up deeply buried memories.

_("Shouto—please forgive me! I have to do it—I have to keep your heart from freezing! This is the only way!")_

His nose twitches with the effort to keep his eyes dry. He can't cry now—not if he wants to prove to his father that he isn't a child.

"If that's all, then there's work I need to do."

Shouto dips his head in a low bow. His father approves of such a submissive gesture, unable to see how Shouto's hair hides his glare.

* * *

_If you're as smart as everyone believes, you'll do the same. _

He never saw his brother after that day, but Toya's words linger in the back of his mind like an inescapable itch.

When Shouto turns fifteen, he decides it's finally time to follow his brother's advice. Escaping the castle will be preferable to enduring any more of the king's royal lessons.

Shouto almost feels guilty for his decision to abandon his kingdom, but the soothsayer's cryptic prophecy and the images of his mother's horrified stare dwell in his memories alongside Toya's warning.

He's fated to _become_ something—something so monstrous his own mother burned him for it.

Shouto believes he'll be doing his kingdom a favor by disappearing.

* * *

He spends weeks pilfering canned foods and necessary tools, keeping them tucked under his bed. When the time finally arrives, Shouto forces himself to remain steady, otherwise the giddiness and guilt might tip off the king that something is amiss.

He decides to disappear when the kingdom hosts dignitaries from its southern neighbors. He hopes his father's guards will be more preoccupied with keeping intruders out of the castle that they'll pay less attention to those trying to slip out.

He hardly sleeps the night before, his nightmares tainted with Toya's scars and his mother's tears.

Morning comes too fast and too early.

The maid shakes her head when she throws open his bedroom curtains. Shouto flinches from the bright light, blinking furiously until his eyes adjust.

"Just when you think it's finally springtime," the maid says with a click of the tongue. "Would you look at that sky? Looks like it the snow might start up again any second now!"

Shouto's eyes narrow. _Snow?_

"You best dress warmly for your carriage ride today, your highness. We don't need you freezing to death out there."

* * *

"Izuku! You're forgetting your cloak!"

Izuku shakes his head and laughs under his breath. "It's nearly spring! There's no reason to bring my heavy cloak."

His mother tightens her grip on the thick emerald fabric. "You never know. It might get cold at night."

Izuku doubts it. He could hardly get any sleep the previous night with the springtime peepers and chirping crickets finally waking from their winter slumbers. It feels like winter has breathed its last.

Though, it may also have been his buzzing nerves keeping him up. He's never gone to the castle by himself before.

(He supposes he's not going to the castle itself. Just the neighboring city that sprouted up around the towering marble walls. Still, it's an adventure he's eager to begin, with or without his cloak.)

Still, he relents and takes the cloak from his mother's grasp. Her puckered lips soften and the wrinkles lining her forehead smooth over.

"Are you sure you don't want me to join you? Or you could wait for your father to come ho—"

"I'll be fine," he says, making sure to meet her bright eyes. "I'll be back in three days—you'll hardly notice that I'm gone. And when I return, I'll make sure I bring sweets from the city."

Izuku laughs again, but this time she smiles with him.

"Please be safe, Izuku…"

"I promise I will."

His mother nods and steps back. Izuku turns towards the overgrown path leading from his house to the main road. He only pauses for a second to wave to his mother before setting off down the dusty road. He grips the leather strap across his chest, taking a deep breath until the jitters in his chest settle down.

In the distance, the silver walls of the castle rise high above the treetops. His pace quickens like a moth to the flame.

* * *

When Izuku takes his first step onto the cobblestoned streets, a blaring fanfare of trumpets nearly makes him jump out of his skin. His startled brain first assumes the dramatic music is for him—either as a scolding or a celebratory cheer—but then he realizes the musicians are heralding the approaching procession.

Izuku takes two quick steps backwards, managing to duck in line with the gathering crowd before two large horses trot over the precise stone he had been standing on seconds earlier.

"Make way!" one rider shouts, cupping his hands around his lips to project his warning across the murmuring crowd.

_"I can see the carriage! It's him—it's the crown prince!"_

_"Such a handsome boy!"_

_"So polished compared to those brutish dragon hoarders!"_

Izuku stiffens, feeling the same jittery excitement from earlier in his chest.

_Prince Shouto is here? Does that mean—_

When he set off earlier that morning, Izuku hadn't expected to encounter anyone of the royal family, least of all the crown prince. Periodically, members of his small village would return from running errands in the city, becoming nearly as popular as the royals themselves whenever they had news of the Todorokis to share.

Izuku shifts from foot to foot, his body buzzing with anticipation. Now it'll be his turn to bring back stories to anyone who would care to listen. He cranes his neck, hoping to get a better view of the looming carriage, but excited onlookers jostle him with elbows and hips.

Izuku clicks his tongue and quickly scans for an open spot in the crowd.

_There!_

An upturned rain barrel rests against a low hanging balcony. He's already clambered onto the barrel with one hand stretched for the railing before realizing that he could be accused of trespassing or being a threat to the prince's life. He wriggles over the railing, grateful that no one shouts for him to leave. He supposes everyone is so caught up in the thrill of the prince to notice him.

The carriage rumbles a mere few meters from Izuku. From his vantage point, he can see everything, from the dark red of the prince's hair to the gloss of embroidery on his azure collar. The prince keeps his face angled away from them, staring at something in the carriage.

"Prince Shouto!"

The words bubble out of his mouth before he can stop himself. He knows he must sound ridiculous, especially if he ever hopes to be heard over the cheering crowd, but their giddiness is infectious.

And wouldn't it be something if the prince looked his way or acknowledged him?

"Prince Shouto!" Izuku shouts again, cupping his hands around his mouth. "Over here!"

The prince turns his head in Izuku's direction, but his blank gaze skims over him as if he were no different than the empty rain barrel Izuku used as a step. Izuku's fingers curl and his hands drop to his side.

Instead of growing frustrated at being slighted, Izuku feels his gut twist.

_He looks so sad… _

The carriage rumbles past, carrying a prince with downcast eyes and grinning, waving attendants. The cheers continue to rise as the procession winds through the crowd. Izuku's shoulders droop; he no longer shares in the crowd's enthusiasm.

Izuku wonders if anyone else notices the crown prince's frown or if they're too swept up in the idea of royalty. The sound of cheers and screaming can still be heard long after he loses sight of the carriage. He doesn't have the heart to chase after the procession anymore, so he climbs down from balcony. The streets are much easier to navigate without having clamoring crowds to fight through.

He sighs again, his wispy breath visible in the crisp air. When he looks to the gray, cloud-streaked sky above, he's grateful he took his mother's advice about bringing the cloak.

* * *

As he had hoped, escaping from the castle seems to be easier with most of the servants and soldiers preoccupied by their guests. Still, he's familiar with his father's paranoia and anticipates patrolling guards around every corner. He even musters up a convincing cover story for why he's roaming the castle halls with a leather rucksack and coat.

However, the halls are empty and silent as he creeps through them. Apart from his stifled breaths and the distant rumble of untraceable snores, the only sounds are his stocking-clothed heels padding against the stone floor. The chill rises from below and numbs his toes, but he dares not pull his shoes on yet in fear of waking others. Instead, he carries his warmest boots, gripping the fur lining between bloodless, pinched fingers.

A smattering of whispers near and Shouto tenses and blows out his candle before ducking into a nearby alcove. A group of servants round the corner, laughing as they carry piles of linens. Shouto's certain his heart beats loud enough to be heard, but they pass by without a glance in his direction. A silken hem of a pillowcase even brushes the skin on his wrist. For a breathless second, Shouto wonders if he's been struck invisible by magic.

He waits until the servants disappear before creeping in the opposite direction. He relights his candle from a mounted torch, grateful he encounters no other midnight-dweller.

He pauses and glances over a shoulder before wriggling through the crack behind a loosely mounted painting. He only has to suck in his stomach for a few moments before the space opens up into a dank, musty tunnel. It's a bittersweet escape: he used to explore these tunnels with Natsuo, but his royal training has kept him far from his siblings. It feels more cramped than he remembered. He almost forgets which way to take until he notices the messy scrawl from his oldest brother guiding him where to go.

Once he's far enough down the tunnel, he finally allows himself to slip his boots back on, toes curling in relief. The air grows more frigid and he almost turns back, but he knows he'll never try again if he gives up now.

When he finally reaches the end of the tunnel and steps into the dark night, he feels the cool kiss of snowflakes along his nose and the back of his neck. He shivers but keeps walking. His boots crunch as he walks over the frosted grass and when he looks back, he sees the faint dusting of snow covering up his tracks.

_Good. They won't be able to find me easily._

He takes a deep breath—the crisp air stinging his throat—and sets off towards the forest's edge.

* * *

Shouto stumbles around trees and trips into snow covered ditches for nearly an hour before exhaustion threatens to overwhelm him. If he doesn't seek shelter soon, he fears he'll collapse, drained by his fading adrenaline and the lack of sleep from the night before. Although his candle's flame has managed to survive his frequent tumbles, melted wax dribbles down the side of the candle and burns his knuckles.

His chapped lips crackle into a smile when he spots a rock shelter a few meters away. After a cursory check for fuzzy or feathered inhabitants, he shrugs off his bag and props the stubby remnants of the candle up against a pile of rocks. It's a shallow rock shelter. The blowing snowflakes still reach the nape of his cloak, even when he stands at the very back.

Regardless, he's grateful. It provides enough shelter to keep him out of the worst of the wind and the hard-packed dirt is free from snow.

He gathers a few twigs and branches, brushing off the snow as best he can with his tingling fingers. He stacks them in a haphazard pile, keeping it as tightly packed as possible. He's never made a fire and he regrets not paying more attention to how the servants used to place the wood. Still, when he tucks the dying nub of his candle amongst the kindling, some of the sticks catch fire.

It's a slow, sputtering fire, but it's warmth nonetheless. He lies down and wriggles closer to the flames until he's near enough to regain feeling in his nose and fingertips again.

The hard ground makes his side go stiff and his back is still exposed to the elements, but the fire keeps out most of the numbing chill. His heavy eyelids drift closed and his breaths deepen as the clouds gather, concealing the pale glow of the moon. Soon, Prince Shouto is asleep.

* * *

As he sleeps, his dreams are consumed by a home he used to know.

(A home he's unsure about leaving.)

He does not hear the fire and ice discuss his fate.

"Give the boy to us. His skin is as cold as ice," whisper the snowflakes as they settle along Shouto's cheek and fluttering lashes. "He will not last much longer."

"You will not have him," cry the embers, glowing brighter in the dark winter night. "See his breath, the burn on his eye? The beat of his heart? His warmth belongs to us."

The snow continues to fall, dusting his hair until the fine strands become white. However, the snowflakes know they cannot take the boy as long as the fire fights for him. While the fire pops and crackles with its show of might, the snowflakes remain silent, considering.

"Very well. Then we must share. If he survives the night, then you may keep your claim on him."

The fire accepts this challenge and burns as fiercely as it can until the precariously stacked sticks and kindling collapse on itself and the embers fade. Without anyone to feed it throughout the night, the fire weakens while the snow falls ever harder.

"Forgive us," the coals whisper before they too are extinguished by the falling snow.

When daylight reveals the fire's valiant sacrifice, the snowflakes are impressed. They allow Shouto to keep his breath and color as a testament to the fire's effort.

Everything else belongs to the ice.

* * *

**Thanks for reading!** Please let me know if you have any questions! This'll be a "short" fic, so brace yourself for three more chapters.


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